


Complicity

by GloriaMundi



Series: Sentenced [3]
Category: Pirates of the Caribbean
Genre: C17, Grammar BDSM, Historical, M/M, Pirates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-05-15
Updated: 2004-05-15
Packaged: 2017-10-05 20:48:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GloriaMundi/pseuds/GloriaMundi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What's brought them both to this room...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Complicity

There's complicity between them, something that prevents either man from lying -- to himself or to the other, at least, though not to any one of their various friends, acquaintances, relatives and shipmates -- about what's brought the two of them here to this sordid, inaccessible tavern on a marshy island off the coast of Jamaica; no one remembers Meg Murray these days, but the rickety black-walled tavern still bears her name and its customers still ply her trades, all three of 'em, those being the selling of victuals and strong drink; the provision of a marketplace for those tawdry girls (and not a few boys) who flout their wares with ragged clothes and painted faces, and pay a tithe to the landlord for use of the rooms upstairs; and the buying, selling, handling, discussion and comparison of stolen goods, the trade of smugglers and pirates and dishonest pursers, of dockside workers and clever clerks, of anyone and everyone who's laid hands ("finders keepers!") on something that isn't theirs to sell, and of those bold adventurers who'll take a chance on anything if the price is right, no questions asked, and never mind the lawful owner's name: and so, really, the combination of lust and greed, the desire to have what isn't rightly one's own, the casual disregard for law and order and the cheerful riot of the common-room, all make Meg Murphy's tavern a fine and suitable venue for this clandestine meeting of pirate and commodore, both of them in shabby dark coats and villainous hats, James' disguise so effective (never mind whether it's a good disguise or a bad one) that he recognises Jack before the pirate sets eyes on him, and Jack's eyes widen at Norrington's transformation from upright Navy man to, well, degenerate rogue; but Jack, of course, is laughing with (or at) him by the time James reaches the nook in which Jack's ensconced himself, and James can't help returning the smile, rather hesitantly but with genuine warmth, as he slides in next to Jack behind the splintery table where they can sit side by side and not have to look one another in the eye; though he _wants_ to look Jack in the eye, he finds, and when he turns to face the pirate he finds Jack looking at him, _peering_ at him (they're at the back of the room, as far from the shuttered windows as they can be, and the flickering lantern hides more than it reveals) as though James is some new and precious acquisition, some treasure plundered from its rightful owner: Jack's saying his name, and smiling -- James is irritated all over again by the gilded trumpery of that smile, whilst simultaneously feeling a rush of fondness (and, he can't deny it, desire) for its owner -- and then he gestures at James' wigless head -- or no, at the low, stained ceiling above his head -- widens his eyes meaningfully, and leers in such a comically exaggerated manner that James almost chokes on the ill-advised mouthful of smuggled wine he's just taken, and he realises that Jack is suggested that they go upstairs, to ... to ... James can't quite get his breath, this is all too fast and too headlong and too real and too immediate, but Jack's edging closer to him -- close enough that his knee's pressing against James', and _that's_ enough to make a shiver run from knee to thigh to gut and so forth, and to make James realise that he's as keen as Jack to get somewhere private -- and Jack's hand is nudging his, pointing to the scarred table-top, and to the paler marks where someone (_Jack_) has recently scratched their initials, "JS" and "JN", and the rough outline of a heart around them both; James' sudden arousal is matched by a tightness in his chest, and he can't help staring at Jack for a moment with, no doubt, his entire self laid bare in his expression: Jack stares back at him with that warm, dark, smiling stare that James has brought to mind on many lonely nights, and for a moment it's almost too much, too honest: then Jack's nudging him, winking, gesturing and gesticulating, leading him on, but there's nothing empty about this promise, and Jack's taken him by the hand -- here where anyone, any thief or criminal or rogue, might see -- and is leading him up the crooked stairs with their stink of saltwater and their bundles of drying sea-grass overhead; Jack seems to know where he's going and he doesn't slow at the top of the stairs, though there are doors leading off an open landing and the sounds of -- well, of _merriment_, James thinks rather primly -- coming from behind those doors, enough sounds to make him think of bare skin and then, inevitably, of baring himself before this pirate, the pirate who's glanced over his shoulder to be sure that James is still behind him, who smiles and says, "It's unlucky to look back, but I couldn't have you getting away, now, could I?" which is a question to which there are so many answers that James is hard-pressed to choose one, besides being distracted by the sight of Jack Sparrow ascending a second flight of stairs in front of him, all sway and curve, more inviting to the hand than any corsetted whore; it's quite an effort to keep his mind on the matter in hand, and to retrieve the question from some echo in the air, and to say, "That presupposes your catching me, when it's evident to anyone that the boot's on the other foot," which has Jack chuckling even as -- with an inevitable flourish that has James rolling his eyes -- he produces an ornate brass key from somewhere underneath his shirt, and bends to fit it to the lock of a door that's half-hidden in the angle of the staircase: James tries to imagine what might await him on the other side of that door, but he's not a little distracted by the prospect of Jack, and his hand can't help but follow the curve of Jack's arse, revealed as it is by the hang of his coat and by the tautness of cotton breeches that are soft to the touch with age and wear, and the warmth he can feel through the cloth more than makes up for the admonitory tap on his wrist and the playful reproof in Jack's voice as he murmurs, "No handling of the merchandise, love," which does nothing to convince James to stop what he's doing, especially as Jack's pushing back into his touch in a way that makes it difficult for them to both get through the door without getting tangled up in one another, and in fact James finds himself braced against the doorjamb with Jack pressed against him, neither of them in the least interested in closing the door until they hear heavy footsteps ascending the stairs below them: then Jack Sparrow all but drags James into the tiny room and forces the door shut -- will they ever get out? will they ever want to? -- behind them both, and turns the key in the lock: click.


End file.
